Beginner's Luck
by MissingMommy
Summary: In which John tries to hussle Sherlock, and Sherlock lets him. ::Johnlock.


For Allie and her muse, from Harry and Clara.

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He thinks you don't know what he's doing. But you do; it's not hard to figure out. All you have to do it watch him, which you do all the time.

He holds the cue stick in his hands, lining up his shot. He posture is different than it was the game before. He's much more graceful and assure of himself than he was. On top of that, when he thinks you're not looking, he smirks. Despite what he wants you to believe, you can tell he's played before, but you don't say anything. You let him believe that you think it's only his second game.

You watch as he makes a particularly difficult shot, bouncing the cue ball off the opposite side of the table before sinking the two ball into the corner pocket. Before he lines up his next shot, he smiles at you. "Beginner's luck, eh?"

You don't respond because you know there's no such thing as beginner's luck. You're just going to let it slide; the smile on his face is worth it.

He motions to the corner pocket. "Call." After a few moments, he hits the cue ball with the stick, and you watch as it barely misses the only ball remaining on the board for him – the eight ball. The shot wasn't as difficult as the previous one, where the only option was bouncing the cue ball. There were no obstructions, so you know the missed shot was purposeful.

He nods to you, and you pick up your cue stick from where it's leaning against the wall.

You take a moment to assess the board. You have four balls on the board, excluding the eight ball, while he only has the eight ball left. While this is only your second game, all pool is a game of physics; therefore, clearing the table wouldn't be much of an issue. But you see him watching you, and you don't think losing to him would be that bad.

He wants your phone for twenty-four hours. You're not entirely sure why he wants it. It's not like you're secretive with it. You have him text from your phone all the time when you're too lazy or too caught up in something to do it yourself. So, while you can't understand why he wants the phone, the deal isn't horrible.

Lining up your stick with the cue ball, you aim for the burgundy fifteen. You hit the cue ball with enough force to send it into the ball, sinking it into the side pocket. You line up your second shot – the yellow nine – and sink it into the right corner pocket.

On your third shot, you sink the red eleven. The orange thirteen sits in front of a corner pocket and, from your last shot, the cue ball makes it a nearly perfect shot. But you plan on pocketing the ball, but not being able to continue. You hit the ball harder necessary, causing both the thirteen and the cue ball to sink into the pocket.

It's a scratch.

When you look up at him, there's excitement written in his features. And you think that maybe Mycroft was wrong. Caring can be an advantage.

He digs out the cue ball from the pocket and, after a few moments of debating, he sits it at the end of the table where you broke from, where he has an excellent position to hit the remaining ball. He points with the stick to the side pocket. "Call."

You watch as he strikes the ball, and the eight ball drops unceremoniously into the pocket, leaving only the cue ball on the table. He grins at you.

.

You're walking beside John as he stumbles ever-so-slightly back to your place. His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol and he's smiling. He's holding your phone in his hands like it's a trophy. You definitely made the right decision in letting him win.

You open the door, and watch as John starts to disappear towards his bedroom. He turns back to you. "Thank you," he says.

It could be for several different things – going with him to the pub, playing pool, not being a dick – but somehow you know what he's referring to. He's thanking you for going along with his bluff, without calling him out on it. Because he knows that you purposefully scratched.

Instead of saying _you're welcome_, you say, "Good night, John."

"Night, Sherlock," he echoes. He disappears, leaving you alone in the living room. You hear his door shut and you pull out your violin.

You close your eyes, pulling the bow across the strings.

.

When he gives you back your phone, you think nothing of it. You leave it sitting next to you as you conduct another experiment of sour milk and cheese. You still don't know why he wanted it in the first place, but you don't worry about that. You have other cases to solve.

As you're in the middle of looking through samples, a loud _ding_ fills the air. You freeze, no longer focused on what you are doing. John isn't there; he's at work for another three hours, which means that it's not his phone going off. The only thing left is that your phone is making that noise, but it hasn't done in weeks.

You pull away from your microscope and pick up your phone. It's a text from The Woman, and you smile. John tampered with your ringtones. Changing your ringtones must've been the reason why he wanted the phone.

You respond quickly back to her before setting your phone to the side. It amuses you that, of all the things he could've done with your phone, he choose to change your ringtone. You didn't realize that it annoyed him so much. After all, you've gotten accustom to it over the weeks so you assumed that he must've.

You turn back to your experiment, not bothering to change your ringtone. It's what letting John wins means.


End file.
